You wiped the sweat off your brow as you left the badminton court, your legs still heavy from an intense rally. The sun was low, streaking the sky with hues of orange and pink, painting everything with a warm glow. Across the street, the familiar sounds of sneakers squeaking and a basketball thudding against the pavement echoed from your subdivision’s court.

You paused at the crosswalk, spotting your church friends waving animatedly at someone on the court. “He’s good!” you overheard one of them shout as you crossed over. Curiosity tugged at you until you saw who they were yelling at—a tall figure darting between defenders, his hair tousled in the wind as he dribbled the ball.

You froze. It was Rowen.

Rowen. The same Rowen who you liked in high school, the basketball varsity player you confessed to on graduation, and whose laugh you used to daydream about. It had been years since graduation. He looked older now, leaner, and far too comfortable weaving through defenders with a speed that made your stomach flip.

What was he doing here?

You let your feet pull you closer, trying to appear nonchalant. Your friends must have invited him, not knowing you used to have the world’s most obvious crush on him. They were yelling encouragements now, fully absorbed in the game. Rowen caught a rebound and took off down the court, moving with effortless grace.

“Hey, watch out!”

You turned just as he sprinted toward you on a fast break. It all happened so fast—his shoulder bumped into yours, and you stumbled back.

“Whoa, sorry! You okay?” His voice was deeper than you remembered.

You looked up and met his eyes, wide with concern. You nodded mutely.

“Wait… don’t I know you?” he asked, a slow smirk spreading across his face as recognition dawned.

Before you could respond, one of your friends called out, “Come on, man! Quit flirting and finish the game!”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as Rowen laughed, a warm, familiar sound. “Catch you after,” he said with a wink, jogging back onto the court.